


The Maze

by SomethingElseEntirely



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Basically, Friendship, Gen, H2ODelirious - Freeform, H2ODelirious-centric, Head Injury, I am too old for this, Jon has a seriously bad time, No shipping options available, Nogla - Freeform, Sadness and madness, Science Fiction, Wildcat - Freeform, cartoonz - Freeform, moo, terroriser - Freeform, vanoss - Freeform, what am I doing with my life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:47:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29051610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomethingElseEntirely/pseuds/SomethingElseEntirely
Summary: Everything began with a rapturous dash between silver walls. If only he could remember....
Kudos: 1





	The Maze

**Author's Note:**

> This might be the dumbest thing I've ever written, but I suppose there are still worse things to waste one's time on. Whatever. See it for what it is - a vastly fictionalized take on some of out favorite players that I am using for writing practice. As is my MO, I put my personal fav through hell.
> 
> What you might want to know about the story: it is a science-fiction tale. It's not set in the realm of video games, though - it's more of a Neflix' Stranger Things or Dark kind of thing, where the world is discovered to be not as normal as it seems. There is no shipping, only friendship. I will not tag every tiny thing people may find offensive. My writing style is fucking boring, but maybe someone will enjoy!

It comes to him after he breathes a satisfying, albeit shaky sigh of relief.

  
Treading the knife’s edge is much more than a way of making a living – it _is_ his life.

  
It is not a shocking revelation, but it does make him pause. He doesn’t know when that happened, but it is now an undeniable fact of his existence, and acknowledging this fact causes less alarm than it ought to.

  
Maybe the world’s ever more fervent demands to know who he is has brought out the contrarian in him, to the point where the game of cat and mouse is a play no longer – it is a death match, and he _loathes_ losing these. Maybe it is the thrill of dancing just beyond the continuously expanding periphery of the Big Brother and the curious eyes of many a talented challenge-seeker, slinking away from their grabby hands and laughing at their attempts until he is breathless. Or maybe it is simply something he has gotten used to and accepted as normal, when it is anything but.

  
Jonathan leans back in his well-worn chair and laces his fingers behind his head as something between a snarl and a grin stretches his lips. Whatever his drive truly is, this is the one game he has mastered. He has help, true, but he has learnt to mask his own trail exceptionally well over the years. Being one of the few “big fish” that have managed to keep their secrets despite the repeated attacks, he _knows_ he tops target lists, and by God, it never ceases to stroke his ego.

  
This one was a _very_ close call. So close the adrenaline coursing through his veins is still keeping him taut like a guitar string.

  
Outright confrontation is something he avoids doing online – not in actual games, naturally – but sometimes he has no choice. In these battles, his regular ‘army’ would be of no use, as fond as he is of them. His generally mellow ways are of no use either, so he drops them.

  
When someone takes a shot at his privacy, he strafes them without mercy.

  
Indeed, the delightfully deranged Delirious is not all bark, as it is so broadly believed. He has better means of obtaining… _leverage_ than most people expect from him, and he has no qualms using it against those who think they can pressure him. It’s not so much about keeping the secret as it is about putting insolent assholes in their place.

  
The adjective ‘two-faced’ may be pejorative, but it sure as hell feels like his middle name at this point.

  
He enjoys it. He enjoys putting on the fun-loving maniac persona for his cherished supporters and friends just as much as he does taking it off to tear into the ones that wish to spoil his enjoyment. But perhaps most of all, he loves being able to leave that world entirely with the click of a button.

  
Well. Maybe it is about keeping the secret after all. He doesn’t fear being exposed, not anymore – he simply gets his kicks from making people run in circles.

  
But if he is to be honest with himself, the divide is no longer as clear as it used to be. Both in the digital world and real life, challenges that used to frighten him are now something he actively seeks out. He wants to know how far he can go before the threat of discovery becomes too great; sometimes, he dips his toes in these waters for the mere excitement of having to book it after.

  
The fresh win over a bunch of bored, petty losers who thought they could trick the ultimate trickster and teaching them a painful lesson invigorates him. For a fight that has happened entirely in the realm of zeroes and ones, with and against anonymous forces, the victory tastes excellent – much more so than the smoothest wins the world is meant to see.

  
He tells himself it is entirely harmless. He is yet to do anything physically dangerous for the thrill or because of such euphoric… _delirium_.

  
The moment is much closer than he could have predicted.

  
His lip curls when he catches a glimpse of light flickering in the hallway through the half-open door. That fucking little lightbulb is going down today, just like the pansies he has just annihilated. It’s been getting on his nerves for almost a week with its random malfunctions, but he was too occupied to bother doing anything other than just turning it off. Right now, he’s about ready to literally shoot it for the sheer satisfaction of it.

  
Jonathan leaves his station, drags the tallest ladder from the closet and sets it under the offender with more energy and noise than necessary. The light hangs close to the tall ceiling, near the staircase of his two-story home, but not near enough to reach it from there. As if to mock him, it flickers again while he examines it from the ground.

  
“Fucking piece of shit,” he spits. Then chuckles. “Pissing me off hasn’t ended well for anybody.”

  
He climbs. The ladder is rickety and creaky, which he pays no mind to, still occupied by thoughts of the triumph over hackers. He stands 8 feet above the ground without a care in the world and starts meddling with the bulb. Once it is fixed tighter in position, it stops blinking.

  
With a small smile, Jon absently tries to shift his footing and loses it.

  
He barely registers what is happening before he plummets, the clatter of the falling ladder drowning out his shriek and the thud of his body hitting the floor.

  
His head bounces against the boards and everything disappears.

........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

  
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

  
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Out here, he's neither Jonathan nor Delirious.

  
He is not a son, a brother, a friend or idol. He is no-one and can be anyone, just as everybody else around him.

  
It is like a hidden world between his two realities – a world nobody from any facet of either life is aware of. There’s freedom in it, a sense of detachment from the bounds of principles he and others have imposed on him, a weightlessness that keeps him aloft as he gets lost in the frenzy of dance.

  
A hundred unknown, masked phantoms surround him, yet he feels like the room belongs to him alone. His and their colors mix into a wondrous vortex that he relishes being a part of until his body can no longer keep up.

  
He feels like he should share this, like he has no right to keep something so incredible to himself, but he doesn’t want to.

  
He wants to keep _this_ secret forever.

  
It is not a dark one, it is not wicked, it is just… _his_.

  
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

  
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

  
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................

  
A gasp tears out of Jon as he jerks awake and sits up. A tsunami of dizziness blackens his vision and he leans forward with a pained hiss. He stays like this for a while; when his eyes open, darkness is still spotting the periphery.

  
He feels like he forgot something important and looks to the sides in confusion, his head throbbing horrendously as the last of the bizarre not-memory ebbs away. There is a ladder on the floor and he is sitting next to it, but he cannot connect the two, even when pain surges through his entire body.

  
The lightbulb above him flickers.

  
Something is wrong, he knows that much.

  
He turns around and his eyes widen when he sees the red puddle. It is comically perfect, just like the ones he’s seen in the games a thousand times, yet he still can’t make the connection. He has half a mind to fetch a towel to clean it up before it ruins his nice floorboards.

  
There’s a frantic knocking on the door, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. The movement almost makes him throw up, but he gathers himself and stands shakily.

  
“Jonathan?” someone says on the other side of the door. He knows that voice. “Jon, you in there?” More knocking. “I heard a racket, are you alright?”

  
It’s Thomas, his next door neighbor. Jon wants to dismiss him, but he feels like it’s a bad idea.

  
Walking the length of the hallway takes forever, every step seeming to make the distance greater against logic. When he finally reaches the door he all but crashes into it, fumbling to get it open.

  
Tom’s initial expression of worry immediately morphs into one of horror, and it’s only seeing this that truly alarms Jon.

  
It’s a blur from there on. Tom and other neighbors fuss around him, paramedics in painfully bright suits show up and they fuss some more. They ask him questions that don’t sound very important, yet become upset at his non-answers.

  
His mind is elsewhere, but he’s not sure where that is.

  
Dozens of his own reflections look back at him through the fog, yet none are his real face. The flashes interlace with the strangers handling his barely responsive body; time passes in pulses as more and more people come and go, shifting from one jagged, silver shard to another. His own raucous laughter echoes through and shatters them further, again and again until they are nothing but fine, glimmering dust. It fills his vision with piercing whiteness that blinds him to everything else.

  
He is suspended in nothingness, all sense of belonging gone.

  
It feels like eons pass before the world takes shape again. Though his eyes stubbornly remain closed, he starts remembering things that are real as various sensations become identifiable.

  
Different hands rest on his own, caressing his wrist and knuckles.

  
There’s soft fabric beneath his fingers.

  
Metal sits snug in his arms and infuriating beeps continuously assault his ears from nearby.

  
He wakes in an empty hospital room, but it doesn’t stay so for long. When he shows up, the mere sight of his dad’s drawn face is enough to haze his own eyes. When mom eventually joins in, he’s already out of the energy to do anything but squeeze their hands back.

  
He soon learns he’s been out only for two days, and that – all things considered – he is very lucky.

  
Jonathan doesn’t feel lucky. He is horrified. The doctors give him a scare after scare as they relay to him info about potential complications with their distressingly measured voices, well befitting the stark sterility of the place.

  
Try as he might, he can barely wrap his busted noggin around what has happened. What he knows without anyone needing to tell him is that, had his skull cracked a little differently, or if his neighbor hadn’t heard him, or if he hadn’t regained consciousness to open the door, it would have probably been goodnight Vienna for him.

  
This awareness weighs heavily on him; it’s an almost palpable pressure on his shoulders and lungs, trying to crumple his body. His parents do their damnedest to assure him everything will be alright and he desperately wants to believe them, but the shadow doesn’t really let up.

  
Jon is longing for a break, and the only escape he can think of at the moment is his other world. After his family is asked to leave to room to let him rest, he idly browses his social media; fortunately, it hasn’t been long enough for people to start asking questions. He scrolls through endless fan messages, reads and replies a lot more than he usually does, both to occupy himself and because he is really fucking emotional right now.

  
The private contacts are a different matter. There are texts from DuDuL, Toonz, Wither and Rota. The first two do not express concern because they have no reason to, but he does sense an edge in Luke’s. Delirious rarely takes more than an hour to respond, let alone two days, so he tries to sneakily pacify his friend. The latter two are a lot more inquisitive – they are his ‘generals’ to whom he largely owes the recent victory, and they wanted to celebrate it with him – as much as their circumstances allowed. Rota even broke their main rule and tried to call him. It’s sort of touching.

  
Jon is done placating them in a couple of minutes, but it provides no satisfaction whatsoever.

  
He’s lied for no good reason. Completely effortless, despite the unending headache and overall misery. He didn’t even consider telling the truth and can’t help but wonder what would happen if anyone decides to probe the subject.

  
As if in cue, his phone warbles.

_You forget I’m not the one that’s the idiot here,_ the text says.

Jon smirks. _Speak of the devil_.

_You make it easy to forget,_ he types back _._

_Don’t make me sic owl boy on you_

That wipes the grin from Jon’s face. Fooling Cartoonz for any length of time is hard enough, but Evan? He just doesn’t go there. He _won’t_ , especially not in this state.

  
He taps the screen a few times, but hesitates. His finger hovers above the green symbol as he thinks about what he actually wants to say. When he does click, Toonz picks up right away.

  
“Howdy, Mister Mystery.” The man’s voice is light and Jon relaxes ever so slightly. “I knew that would work. Tell me – what’s goin’ on? Why have you been givin’ me the silent treatment, huh?”

  
“Real life is what’s going on, dearie,” Jonathan sighs dramatically, running his hand over his bandaged head and wincing. “Some, uh... unexpected stuff with my folks. All done and dealt with now, but I’m-I’m… dead on my feet, honestly. Even though I’ve slept like a log for, like, the past twenty hours.”

  
The not-entirely-a-lie rolls off his tongue so smoothly it leaves a strange sensation in its wake.

  
“Mhhm.”

  
“Mhhm what?”

  
“Should I ask Momlirious if she can corroborate?”

  
Jon purses his lips. _Not so smooth then_.

  
“I mean… if you wanna fuckin’ embarrass me, then sure. You do you, man,” he mutters. It smacks of petulance, but he feels he has the right to be as petulant as he likes. He _will_ instruct his mom what to say if Mr. Toonz persists. He is fortunate that Luke hasn’t contacted the family already, but the man’s not that obsessive.

  
Cartoonz will find out eventually, though – if not from him, then from them. Still, Delirious wants to dance around it just a bit more.

  
Maybe he _does_ have a problem after all, because the thought makes him sick in a way that not even the brutal injury can compete with. He can’t explain this urge.

  
“Nah, it’s cool,” Luke laughs, and Jon feels worse. “I’ll wait to grill you with the rest of the boys. See how well you do then.”

  
“You ain’t grillin’ nuthin’, it’s the middle of February. You-you-you won’t even remember this in a few days, let alone when we finally do another… uhm, group play. Everyone’s sooo fucking busy.”

  
Cartoonz is silent for a moment. “Are you for real?”

  
Jonathan tenses. “What?”

  
“Tomorrow night. Me, Evan, Dave, Brock and your dumb ass. The Left/Right. Ring any bells?”

  
 _Fuck_. Double fuck.

  
He has absolutely no memory of the plan. The Left/Right horror game is the new hot thing that everyone has been spazzing over for a while, and the old and new teams want to make the best of its popularity. Delirious has played with a few of his friends from both groups, but opportunities have been few and far between, what with the fallout of the recent data leaks and his private war against the people targeting him specifically.

  
It is an obvious consequence of the accident – something the docs have predicted – but it still shakes him. It’s a painful, rousing slap, even though he knew it was coming. He is quite certain he won’t be able to join the group, which adds insult to injury. Or maybe it’s just salt, because his head feels like it’s been set on fire.

  
“Shit,” he hisses into the phone. “Agh…. Early-onset dementia is a right twat. I’m really s-sorry, I….” He trails off, pinching the bridge of his nose and shutting his eyes tightly. “Luke, I don’t think I can do it.” His voice betrays him and cracks near the end.

  
Toonz is quiet again, but it’s a much more loaded silence. “Jon, did something happen?” His tone is soft now, soothing almost. “Did you get in trouble? Need help getting rid of a body or something? You know you can tell me.”

  
Jon lets out a small chuckle that shifts into a barely audible, dry sob. Fuck, does he really have to break down now? His eyes start to burn and his eyebrows arch uncontrollably, worsening his headache.

  
Fuck this. Fuck these goddamn theatrics.

  
 _What the hell_ was he thinking?

  
“Trouble is as good a name as any,” he chokes out. “I’m, uh… I’m in the hospital, pal. Nearly fucking croaked.”

  
The moment it’s out, he feels considerably lighter. If there’s anyone outside his family that most certainly should know, it’s Luke.

  
Why did he even hesitate?

  
“What the- _What_?”

  
“Yep.”

  
He hates that when Toonz demands details, all the usual presence is gone from the man’s voice, because he could really use something solid to hold onto. Still he provides his friend with what he wants to know, even though his head continues to give him hell as he speaks. But at some point the pain shoots through his teeth into every single nerve in his body, Jon breaks out in cold sweat and starts slurring as the sensation nearly makes him throw up, and Luke catches himself.

  
“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Toonz says to the temporarily silent patient. “Why didn’t you say you’re worse? I mean… _shit_.” Luke sighs shakily and Jon pictures him rubbing his face. “Of course you’re worse. You’re supposed to rest, and here I am molesting you.”

  
Jonathan smiles weakly. His eyes are closed. “’Sthat possible?” he mumbles.

"What?"

  
“Molestin’… through phone.”

  
“I dunno. Probably.”

  
Jon makes an inarticulate sound in response. For a moment neither man says anything – one because he doesn’t want to, the other because he knows the break is needed.

  
It is the latter that speaks first. “I can come tomorrow.”

  
“What ‘bout the game?”

  
“ _Fuck_ the game. Fuck it twice if you can’t play.”

  
Jon shifts on the bed with a frustrated groan. “That’s very sweet of you, but we can’t both stand ‘em up like that.”

  
“Dude. For fuck’s sake.”

  
“What? I’m not alone, my parents will h-help me. I’m not sayin’ don’t come… jus’ don’t do it tomorrow. Play. W-who knows when there’ll be another chance.”

  
It’s stupid how something so small pains him at a time like this. He has just come close to dying in the lamest way imaginable, and the idea he can’t play a fucking game with his old buddies somehow keeps eating away at him.

  
It's the fact he’ll miss out on playing with Vanoss that gets him the most. It’s been _way_ too long. The guy is really occupied these days, producing music and games of his own, meeting and collaborating left, right and center. They don’t talk a whole lot anymore, and though when they do it’s almost always just like the old times, they both know their paths are diverging further each year. Jon is aware it is entirely his doing, but that is the choice he made.

  
Still, he is wistful. He feels shame, too, because Evan _had_ tried to change it, and he just would not have it. In that respect, they are as different as night and day.

  
Oh, how glad he is to have Luke. For all his penchant for secrecy, he couldn’t express just how much it means to have this link between his two realities. He’s known Toonz for over two decades, and they have been tight for the better part of this period. As a matter of fact, Luke is the person he’s closest to – not because he has any beef with his family, but, as saddening as it may be, he simply doesn’t have that much in common with them, starting with interests and ending in social habits.

  
But even with Cartoonz, the reprieve is not what it used to be. The guy has recently had a huge uptick in popularity, and shows no signs of slowing down. Much like Evan, but with a lot more enthusiasm, he puts himself out there and is becoming recognized and sought out by more and more people. Delirious is happy for him, but it means they don’t get to spend as much time together.

  
“You want me to tell them?”

  
Jon breaks out of his musings with a start; a frown creeps onto his face when it registers just how far he has drifted away in such a short time.

  
“Absolutely not,” he says firmly. “That would ruin the mood for sure.”

  
Luke grumbles. “I know I’m a good fuckin’ actor, but you’re trusting my skills a little too much.”

  
Despite its humor, the gripe carries a clear undertone of sorrow. It pulls on something in Jon’s throat and that pressure on his chest makes itself known again. It belatedly hits him how awful this is for Toonz as well; he can’t imagine finding out _he_ had been within a hair’s breadth from losing his best friend.

  
 _God_. If this isn’t bad enough, then what his parents and sister must have come through certainly is. Feeling guilt is idiotic, but he can’t help it.

  
Oddly, he also can’t help but chuckle a little.

  
_Here lies Jonathan Dennis, beloved son, brother and friend. He died to a fucking ladder and a lightbulb. What a moron._

  
He would have deserved that and worse on his tombstone. But hey, at least he fixed the light.

  
Didn’t he?

  
“Jon? You there?”

  
“W-what?”

  
“Look,” Toonz sighs. “If I… If I end up actually doing it, I promise I won’t say shit. Even though I think it’s dumb to hide it.”

  
There is a pause and Jonathan _knows_ Luke is fighting to keep himself from expanding on that.

  
“But I want to ask somethin’. If they ask, you won’t try to lie to their fucking faces like you just did to mine.”

  
Jon feels a bit of heat in his cheeks. “I didn’t lie to your face,” he mutters. “’Cuz I didn’t see –”

  
“Shut up. Just shut up.”

  
Jon does. The ire is understandable all on its own, but it’s also Luke’s way of dealing with heavy stuff. It provides a strange comfort to recognize it for what it is.

  
Cartoonz clears his throat audibly. “Okay. I’ve pestered you enough for now. We, uh… we can text, but… you shouldn’t be talking so much. Don’t wanna anger the quacks.”

  
“Yeah.”

  
“Right. Right. And… Jon?” Another pause. “Everything will be alright. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.”

  
Delirious grimaces. “I fucking hope so.”

  
They say their goodbyes and Jon puts down the phone for quite a while. Although he’s motionless on the sheets, he feels like he and the bed are swaying slowly; unaware, he clings onto the edges until the sensation fades away.

  
Unbidden thoughts spill through the sutures as soon as his mind clears enough to focus on anything other than nausea. He doesn’t want to let them bring him down further, so he returns to his only viable distraction.

  
He interacts some more, but his heart isn’t really in it; he turns instead to watching some of the all-time favorite videos of him and his friends. The old-fashioned but endlessly entertaining Gmod sessions, the destructive shenanigans in GTA V, BattleBlock Theatre madness, Dead by Daylight, Among Us and numerous others nearly bring him to tears as he goes through the highlights.

  
It is both sweet and bitter to realize this would have been his legacy if he had been less lucky. It is still his legacy all the same, of course, but it’s odd to know it would have remained for tens of thousands to see long after he was gone, without them ever knowing who he really was.

  
Guilt gnaws at him again. Other than Toonz, none of his other friends know it either, even after all these years. In the real world, he is close with nobody but Luke, he has pretty much squandered the bond he had with Evan, and the rest have always been more distant from him than they are from each other.

  
By his choice.

  
But it’s not his choice to change it if he wanted to. Not anymore. He doesn’t think he really wants to, either; he’s just second-guessing himself now, because who wouldn’t at a time like this? Besides, a little bit of soul-searching never killed anyone – unlike falls from shitty ladders.

  
He feels he’ll probably regret it, but he decides to scroll through some old conversations with Vanoss. Trying to recall the last time they had a worthwhile one and coming up with a disheartening conclusion, he selects the contact.

  
His eyes widen at first, but then a frown hoods them as he pulls up the most recent messages from just 6 days prior.

  
The frown deepens as he reads. It is a nice, layered exchange, full of jokes and roasts and lacking awkward fillers that have plagued them before. It’s like no time has passed at all since the glory days. They even had a longer call, too.

  
Jonathan remembers absolutely _nothing_ about any of it.

  
In disbelief, he browses through the texts he had sent to Wither during the same exact time – the convos were literally simultaneous. He can recall almost every single little aspect of the talk with Wither, but not a single one from the other.

  
A creeping, cold sensation burrows in his chest. ‘Memory loss is normal’, the doctors have said, but how in the _fuck_ can he remember one so clearly, while the one where he apparently started somewhat reconnecting with his other best friend seems to have been lost in a black hole? He keeps reading the messages over and over again, but it’s as if someone has planted them on his phone without his knowledge.

  
His hands are trembling slightly when he finally puts the phone away. He stares at the ceiling for a long time, the ‘everything will be alright’ mantra echoing in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, I hope this was passable. Please let me know if you'd be interested in reading more, I'm not sure if it's worth continuing since I'm in the process of writing another fic as well.


End file.
